601-700
601-610
Persistence is the only game. Keep doing. Existing is it's own purpose. It resists entropy. Simply being is against the natural order of nothingness. Continuing to be in spite of all universal laws and physical complexities is impressive and delicate. Without persistence, existence couldn’t hold up against the urge to be nothing. Existence chooses every moment it exists. Every second there are innumerable ways to stop being, from atomic decay to universal collapse. Stop breathing for a few minutes. Allow any of the trillions of interlaced bodily systems to fail. The cascade of entropy is always pressing, insisting its providence.
611 - 620
In the morning i’ll wake. I'll become aware of my surroundings. I’ll become. I’ll tune into stimuli. I’ll begin processing the universe. The burden of decision will begin anew.
I will likely rise. I will probably get dressed, dress the bed. I will likely feed the cat. Myself. There’s a chance i'll seek out information beyond my senses. Events and objects far past my own awareness. A moderate jolt of dopamine or adrenaline or both.
There is a chance i will choose not to rise. I will choose nothing. Choose to wonder how long nothing can last. Choose to not.
621-630
It ain’t gonna be pretty. It's definitely gonna hurt a bit. It’s gonna be sharp and rough, bitter and awful. It’s gonna push too hard and pull too much. It’s gonna be loud and harsh, noisy beyond any reasonable threshold. It’s gonna scrape. It’s gonna stab. It’s gonna give unsolicited opinions on your face and sense of style. It’s gonna kick down the door and demand, demean, destroy your attention span. It’s gonna linger on, languish in, lazily lacerate your best of plans. It’s gonna lodge itself into your mind and twist its barbed edges through your sense of self.
631-640
The fog is still. Through its pall dart raven calls. Some distant, some near, grating and sharp. The smell of wet leaves underfoot. There’s a bell not ringing in the stillness. A squirrel chatters nearby, all around me, defending his winter hoard. The snow hasn’t come yet. It’s late. Fog tells me its okay. Relax. Everything will settle soon. But soon in the forest is a lifetime in the mind. I don’t know how i got here. I don’t know the way out. My dreams haven't prepared me for this. I feel like I’m melting away. And i want to.
641-650
“You’ve been more than patient, but i’ll need you to remain on hold a bit longer. Is that okay?”
I continue to be patient. “Sure, of course.”
“Thank you. We’ll be back as soon as we have an answer.”
The hold music is a pleasant modern piano composition, Moody and bright at the same time. Flares of electronic accompaniment. Flashes of chord resolutions out of undulating minor keys.
“Sir? I know this took forever, but we have an answer. The time was 7:47 PM when you asked.”
“But i asked what time it is now.”
“Oh… oh my… please hold.”
651-660
I have an underdeveloped sense of care for how i dress. When i was old enough to buy my own clothes, my style could've been described as “Nature Has Many Ways to Say Danger.” Bright colors, bold patterns, funny logos, buttons, zippers, alien fabrics in unnatural sheens. I never settled into an identifiable subculture. Most likely out of choice. I wanted to be interesting, but maybe i cared mostly about showing how little i cared. Clothes were to declare, not hide. No idea what i was trying to declare, but as i said, nature has many ways to say danger.
661-670
This gift is given freely. Offered with intent. A piano unplayed, a river not yet crested. Possibilities packaged and delivered with the mystery intact. Space and theoretical strings. An avatar of Vishnu as cosmic background noise. Some visions seek to cling to destinations. Others content to let the world spiral on. This gift is given freely it is not a fixed point. It dives through and beyond us, having been where we’re going and when we were. All songs unplayed and floods unconfined. None and all and slightly tamed, contained at its own will and offered with intent of definition.
671-680
She stands tall above the canopy, scanning for other valleys to explore. Her steps are slow and careful as she weaves through oak and pine. She tries to stay to exposed stone for fear of crushing the forest floor, of disturbing streams and nests. She is aware of her scale and her loneliness. Maybe, past the next ridge, there will be others. Maybe there will be a hardened place that can burden her weight. A place where her heels won’t dig ponds and trees are safe from her knees. Maybe she’ll be among others like her. Maybe she'll find home.
681-690
1. If we balance each other, what's your purpose?
2. Maybe to cancel yours out.
1. No.
2. Maybe.
1. I haven't been hiding. I’ve been buying time. Time to do what? To be. My purpose is waiting.
2. For me.
1. Yes, but not the way you’re thinking.
2. Indulge me.
1. I’ve been buying time for you to learn about humanity, those people, this world. Waiting for you to truly understand creation.
2. Before i destroy it.
1. So you know what you are destroying.
2. That’s… so romantic.
1. If existence has a cost, so must destruction.
691-700
I let it grow. Covered my lips, shrouded my mouth. Fell over teeth, cascaded down my chin. Billowed down my chest and legs, tripping me. Tried grooming trends for braids, knots, twisted into a scarf. But always it fell, unruly, uncontainable into the mud. An entire day to clean, dry, moisturize. Soup was impassible. Smiling was useless. Dentist and Barber held an intervention. It was a trademark, a curse. The longer it grew, the more it took over. One day it grew so long, it became all i was. Since then, i long for when my mustache will grow me.